The Last Time
by PenelopeWeaving
Summary: "Sex with Peeta had always been their middle ground, the no-man's-land where two crazily different individuals found communion, a new starting point if they needed it, a place to appreciate the wondrous differences of the other." Written for day seven, round three of Prompts in Panem.


_"To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead." Bertrand Russell_

They were in bed reading as they did every night before going to sleep. Katniss was only marginally interested in her book, but she wasn't tired. In these her older years, she had begun having trouble sleeping again, but it wasn't because she was afraid to go to sleep like she had been all those years ago. Now, she would welcome it, but it often eluded her.

Peeta had spent a few hours after dinner painting. He liked to utilize the late light of early summer that filled his studio in the evenings. But also neither of them had been able to completely erase from their minds what this time of year used to mean. And so he turned to his paint to erase the thoughts of reapings and lost children.

The years had been gracious ones. They had grown a family in what seemed, looking back, like a very short amount of time. Their lives had filled with children and neighbors and friends, and they had been able to see and relish the good in life without dwelling too much on the bad.

But they were older now. Sixty-four didn't seem like it should feel this old, but their pasts had caught up to them. Katniss had spent so many of her childhood years malnourished that her body just wasn't as strong as could be. And the torture that Peeta had endured in the Capitol announced itself in new ways each year as his body, too, began to deteriorate. So far, the changes had been subtle but important and let them both know that they were reaching the end.

She was grateful for the fact that their lives had continued, for the most part, unchanged over the last few years. They saw their children and grandchildren frequently, and they still enjoyed community events where they could see how District 12 had prospered.

Peeta turned the last page in the book he was reading and closed the cover. "Done," he said.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes," he said with a yawn. "Surprise ending." He put the book on the side table and reached to turn off the light before lying on his back to sleep.

Katniss wasn't tired, but she put her own book away and turned off her light as well. Peeta still spent part of his days in the bakery, and he needed his rest to be able to do the work that he loved so much.

Rearranging her pillows, she settled in on her side facing the door. It was a habit she formed when the children were babies – always facing the door so she could be up the moment she heard one of them call. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and exhaled a long, slow breath.

Peeta rolled towards her, his hand resting heavily on her hip. She could feel the heat of his body behind her. He had always been stocky, but over the years his body had hardened into a thick, lean mass that she still loved to run her hands over. She closed her eyes, waiting, but his hand remained stationary on her hip, and so she relaxed under it.

She couldn't help but be a little apprehensive, wondering if he was interested in more tonight. Their changing sex life had been the most difficult aspect of aging to adjust to. She didn't get aroused like she used to. And the last two times, Peeta had pumped into her until it became clear he'd lost his hardness, and so he'd pulled out.

They had lain together then, wrapped in each others' arms, facing the dark night ahead. With warmth. And sadness. And nostalgia for what had always been the easiest part of their relationship. Because even when she was bone-exhausted, Peeta could always reignite the spark. Even when she felt suffocated by despair, Peeta brought new breath to her lungs, new life to her body. Even when she was burning with anger. Hell, especially when she was burning with anger.

Sex with Peeta had always been their middle ground, the no-man's-land where two crazily different individuals found communion, a new starting point if they needed it, a place to appreciate the wondrous differences of the other.

Now in their waning years, they were losing that, too.

Katniss knew in the deepest part of herself that it would be okay, but resting under his hand, which now had begun to shift lightly over her skin, she felt some trepidation that another failed attempt would bring heartache.

However, his hand moved so slowly that she wasn't sure if the pads of his fingertips softly squeezing, softly tracing lines meant something, or if he was just restless. His hand skimmed down her lean hip, which had lost the fullness of her middle age. He grasped her hipbone in his big hand, and she felt a tremor move down her body. She had always loved his hands, the span of which could stretch across her abdomen. She had thought over the years of what those hands could have done to her in anger – almost did do to her in anger.

He grunted softly when he felt her tremble and pulled her closer, burying his face into the hair at her neck.

Still his hands moved lightly, tracing circles now on her side. She tried to turn towards him, but he clamped his arm around her, holding her in place.

Perhaps she had misread him. It seemed like he wanted her, but he wasn't moving forward, wasn't engaging her more than with just his fingertips. She was frustrated. She never liked to be unsure of anything, and it seemed clear now that he was simply teasing her.

And then his lips delicately pressed against her shoulder. She marveled that despite the passing years, his lips were still soft and supple. He left a wet trail up her neck that tingled as his breath cooled her skin. She shivered.

He lifted her nightgown over her head. She moved to comply and tried not to think about it. Her breasts had always been small, and it hadn't bothered her when she was younger. But now, they sagged from her ribcage like a puddle in a Dali painting she'd seen in a book one time. Settling back down on the bed, she crossed an arm over her chest.

But he moved her arm immediately, reaching to cup her breast. She shifted closer towards him, and he brushed his palm over her nipple. She kept her eyes closed, trying to concentrate only on the feeling of his hands. He grasped her hip again and pulled her back snugly against him. His hardness pressed into her, and she felt a surge run through her body.

His hand drifted down her torso, his fingers ghosting over the curls between her legs. Her body thrummed under his touch, but anxiety crept in again as his index finger dipped between her folds. He gasped just as his fingers slipped inside her. She felt a rush of warmth, but she couldn't tell if it was relief or arousal.

It didn't matter. When his fingers circled her clit, she inhaled sharply before breathing out a low, shuddering moan.

She tried to stay still, tried to give in to his attention, but her impatience won out. She wanted him. She wanted his lips and the feel of his body on hers. She wanted him inside her. Now.

He wasn't expecting her to turn so suddenly, but her eyes found his in the darkness. She flattened herself so she could feel every inch of his torso pressed against her now with urgency.

She reached for his lips, devouring them as her hands frantically untied his pajama pants, pushing them off his hips and down his legs. He kicked them off and then sat up over her, in one movement pulling her underwear down and away.

She closed her eyes and breathed him in. Time fell away and was meaningless.

She dragged her hands down his back as he pushed up into her. She let her body take over. The sensation was one she knew almost better than any other, and her instincts guided her away from the anxious thoughts that hovered on the edge of her mind. She tightened her muscles around him and received a satisfying groan from him in response. The sound reverberated inside her own chest as the friction built in eddying swirls.

The intensity increased, spiraling in tighter circles. She opened her eyes to look at him above her. His face was serious, concentrating as he moved in her. She flexed her muscles around him again, and his face went slack. She pulsed him again, and the movement sent her over the brink, falling away from him as her eyes closed and she let go.

She heard his breath hitch as he gave one final, deep thrust, and then he collapsed on her, his face buried in her neck as he panted. She wrapped her arms around his back and her legs around his calves, holding him as tight as she could while he regained his breathing. She smiled over his shoulder, deeply satisfied.

Finally he propped himself up on his arms to look at her. Even in the dark, the blue of his eyes was unmistakable. As his face had changed over the years, as the skin had grown thin and tight in some places and loose in others, his eyes had remained the profound, pooling blue that had captivated her since she was a teenager.

She reached up to cup his face, run her thumb along his cheek. "I love you," she said.

His face communicated a lifetime of emotion though he said nothing. Still panting slightly, he ducked down to nuzzle her neck again.

When he rolled off of her, she rose up from the bed. In the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was white but still long, still escaping her braid. Her face was flushed, eyes brighter than usual.

After cleaning up, she returned to bed and snuggled into her spot next to him. He lifted his arm and pulled her to his chest, her head resting there.

She relaxed under the steady movement of his breathing, which lulled her to sleep. Her mind drifted, thinking of their coupling.

She couldn't help but wonder if that had been the last time.

* * *

**A/N **Thanks as always to BohemianRider for beta-ing and for talking this one through!


End file.
